scandals nor intrigues about him. By nature irascible and
obstinate, he had modified this tendency of his character by reason and
still more by religion. Assiduous in his duties, without arrogance or
vanity, regarding his role as Prince as a mission given him by
Providence, which he wished to fulfil conscientiously, he had not the
slightest mental reservation in favor of restoring the old regime, and
showed, perhaps, more favor to the lieutenants of Napoleon than to the
officers of the army of Conde, his companions in arms. To sum up, he
was not an attractive prince, but he merited respect. The Count of
Puymaigre thus concludes the portrait traced by him:--

"The manner, bearing, and gestures of the Duke of Angouleme cannot be
called gracious, especially in contrast with his father's manners;
doubtless it is not fair to ask that a prince, any more than another,
should be favored by nature, but it is much to be desired that he shall
have an air of superiority. The ruling taste of the Dauphin was for the
chase. He also read much and gave much time to the personnel of the
army. Retiring early, he arose every morning at five o'clock, and
lighted his own fire. Far from having anything to complain of in him, I
could only congratulate myself on his kindness."

The Dauphiness, Marie-Theresa-Charlotte of France, Duchess of
Angouleme, born at Versailles the 19th of December, 1778, was
forty-five years old when her uncle and father-in-law, Charles X.,
ascended the throne. She was surrounded by universal veneration. She
was regarded, and with reason, as a veritable saint, and by all parties
was declared to be sans peur et sans reproche.

The Duchess of Angouleme, shunning the notoriety sought by other
princesses, preferred her oratory to the salons. Yet her devotion had
nothing mean or narrow in it. Despite the legendary catastrophes that
weighed upon her, she always appeared at fetes where her presence was
demanded. She laughed with good heart at the theatre, and there was
nothing morose or ascetic in her conversation. She never spoke of her
misfortunes. One day she was pitying a young girl who suffered from
chilblains. "I know what it is," she said; "I have had them." Then she
added, without other comment: "True, the winters were very severe at
that time." She did not wish to say that she had had these chilblains
while a prisoner in the Temple, when fuel was refused to her.

But if the Princess never spoke of herself, she neve